Songs of Love and War (10 page)

Michael was not a man to sit quietly with his prayers. He wanted revenge and his lust for vengeance consumed him. The hanging of the murderer was not enough for the life of
Tomas Doyle. The whole settlement would pay for the crime, he decided, knocking back a cup of Hanratty’s poteen that burned a trail down his gullet.
An eye for an eye, a tooth for a
tooth
, he thought darkly, hate and grief no longer two separate emotions, but one potent force of malevolence, fuelled by alcohol. As he crept through the undergrowth towards the shabby
caravans and carts parked together in the middle of a field he was glad that clouds covered the eye of the moon for perhaps even God had turned away, leaving
him
to see that justice was
done.

He reached the cluster of simple dwellings, glad that the tinkers hadn’t yet moved on. Perhaps they stayed in the hope of a last-minute reprieve for the man sentenced to be hanged. Michael
didn’t care. Quietly he untied the horses. The docile beasts neighed quietly but remained where they stood. He lit his torch and with the flame lit the other four he had brought with him.
Sneaking up on the caravans he thrust the torches anywhere there was a gap. The fire spread quickly and efficiently, catching light on the straw bedding and devouring the thick fabric covering the
roofs. Then screams rose above the noise of cracking and burning and people poured out of the blaze like rats. That’ll teach them, Michael thought with satisfaction. As he stole into the
darkness he turned to see the devastation, a great bonfire in the centre of the field, throwing golden light onto the surrounding grass and hedges. But as he walked away the cry of a woman reached
his ears and turned his heart to ice. ‘Help! Help! My little Noreen! My little Noreen!’

There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Michael Doyle was responsible for the fire that killed the tinker child, but no one in Ballinakelly dared mention his name when
questioned by the constabulary. Michael Doyle was wild and menacing, capable of reducing a person to pulp with one look of his hard black eyes, and there was not a man in Ballinakelly who wanted to
incite his wrath. Indeed, the town closed ranks around him and Mrs Doyle, Old Mrs Nagle and Badger Hanratty vouched for his presence that night beside the hearth. Yet Michael’s torment was
only just beginning. Noreen was a whisper in his nightmares and a stain upon his conscience, and his guilt blackened ever deeper his calcifying heart.

The second week of August, after the Dublin Horse Show which took place during the first week of August and was an immutable fixture on the Irish calendar, Cousin Digby
Deverill and his family left Deverill Rising, their Wiltshire estate, and descended on Castle Deverill with enough luggage to last an entire year. Sir Digby and his wife, the flamboyant Beatrice,
stayed with Maud and Bertie in the Hunting Lodge with their four very spoilt and insufferable children for four weeks. Celia was Kitty’s age exactly, twins Leona and Vivien contemporaries of
Elspeth, and their son George a little younger than Harry and in the same house at Eton. Digby’s parents, Stoke Deverill, who was descended from Barton Deverill’s younger brother, and
his wife Augusta, stayed in the castle with Hubert and Adeline. They all left England, as they did every year, with heavy trunks full of tennis rackets, riding habits, evening dresses, day dresses
and dancing shoes, ready for the tennis parties, summer balls, dinner parties and lunch parties for which the Anglo-Irish were famous. In attendance was a retinue of lady’s maids, valets and
Celia’s governess, Miss Springer.

This was Kitty’s favourite time of the year. Not only did she enjoy wriggling out of her governess’s clutches but she, Bridie and Celia formed a secret club to spy on the adults.
Kitty’s sharp powers of observation meant she missed nothing and their game kept them entertained for the entire holiday. The highlight was the Summer Ball at Castle Deverill, to which the
whole of West Cork came in their fine carriages and silk ball gowns and danced until sunrise. Kitty and Celia were allowed to stay up. Due to the excessive amount of alcohol consumed by the adults
they were left to wander, infiltrate and observe. The small girls, going about the rooms unnoticed, often witnessed things the adults would have preferred they didn’t.

Maud tolerated Beatrice, who was a large soufflé of a woman, with big breasts and a big heart and a very big collection of the finest diamonds given to her by her entrepreneur husband who
had made a fortune in the South African diamond mines. Indeed, Digby had been knighted by Queen Victoria for his services to the Crown, which infuriated Maud all the more because Beatrice was not
only rich but titled as well. In Maud’s opinion Beatrice was brash and lacked breeding, but Kitty’s father enjoyed Digby because he was a great enthusiast. He could barely ride a horse,
but galloped over the hills all the same, roaring with laughter every time he fell off. He couldn’t cast a fishing line but spent hours trying his luck in the sea and never minded if, by the
end of the day, the only thing he had caught was an old bottle of rum from a sunken pirate ship. He brought with him the finest Cuban cigars, and whiskey and wine in large crates, and Beatrice
gifted the girls silks and lace in the most luxurious colours. As a couple they were extravagant, affectionate and very grand but Kitty loved them for the laughter they brought into her home.

George, Leona, Vivien and Celia were spoilt, with an unsavoury air of entitlement lingering beneath their pert little noses. The girls always arrived in thick coats and hats, with woollen shawls
wrapped tightly around their shoulders, complaining loudly of the cold, racing to huddle in front of the fire as if they’d arrived from the tropics. Beatrice brought extra blankets for the
beds and soft bed socks for chilly feet. ‘This is an adventure,’ she would exclaim to her daughters as they grumbled about the damp linen and the faint but unmistakable smell of mice in
their bedrooms. But they soon got swept along by the Irish way of life, dancing all night, playing croquet on the immaculately cut lawn, tennis on the grass court, picnicking on the beach in fine
weather, dining up at the castle with the local gentry, giggling behind their hands at the eccentric behaviour of their cousins and their cranky friends. It wasn’t long before Leona and
Vivien were pursued by the Irish boys, for not only were they blonde and beautiful, but rich as well, and for a declining society like the Anglo-Irish, the attraction of English money was
irresistible. Celia loved nothing more than excitement and Castle Deverill provided all the intrigue and escapades she could dream of. She found the perfect partner in crime in Kitty. For a child
who bored easily and was prone to sulking, her cousin Kitty was a tireless source of activity and fun.

Victoria had enjoyed a successful London Season staying with her cousins in their palatial Italianate home Deverill House on Kensington Palace Gardens. She returned to Co. Cork with an air of
sophistication, as if she had grown out of Ireland and all that went with it and belonged instead in the ballrooms of London, among the landed gentry and aristocracy. She sighed at the drizzle and
the damp as much as Leona and Vivien did and started most of her sentences with ‘In London . . .’ in a tone that implied everything was better there. She received letters from suitors
and read them out loud to her mother and Beatrice, who pondered with indefatigable enthusiasm which earl or lord might make the best match for her. Kitty rolled her eyes and wondered why liking the
man never came into consideration.

Kitty enjoyed Celia in spite of her petulance. Her cousin had her father’s sense of fun and her mother’s sense of mischief and she didn’t mind playing with Bridie, who she
considered something of a curiosity with her funny accent and foreign vocabulary. Soon after the cousins arrived, Kitty, Bridie and Celia gathered among the tomatoes and grapes in one of
Kitty’s grandmother’s greenhouses.

‘Victoria is very pleased with herself since she came back from London,’ said Kitty, chewing on a piece of wild sorrel.

‘I heard her telling Mama that she doesn’t want to live in Ireland any more,’ said Celia. She pulled a fig off its branch and examined it for insects.

‘I’d be very happy for her
and
Elspeth to go and live in London. I don’t like them at all. Mama doesn’t really like them much, either. She only likes Harry.’
Kitty lowered her voice and added darkly, ‘Do you know, I was meant to be a boy?’

‘How do you know?’ asked Celia.

‘I overheard Mama talking to Lady Rowan-Hampton in the drawing room. She said, “If only Kitty had been a boy . . .”’

‘So she didn’t want you at all?’ Celia gasped, her open mouth full of fig.

‘I’m sure she did,’ interrupted Bridie, who tended to say less when Celia was present.

‘No, she didn’t. I was a disappointment. One day when I have a baby girl I will love her very much.’ Kitty grinned, for she wasn’t one for self-pity. ‘Let’s
do something really wicked.’

‘Oh let’s!’ Celia clapped her hands. With Kitty life was always full of excitement and mischief.

‘Perhaps, if we find a frog, Victoria might kiss it in the hope that it turns into a prince. What do you think?’ Kitty laughed. ‘Shall we see if we can find one?’

‘Where would we find a frog?’

‘Down by the river. If we go to the lily pond we’ll risk being seen,’ Kitty replied. ‘What do you think, Bridie?’

‘As long as I don’t have to touch it,’ she replied anxiously. ‘Frogs give you warts.’

‘That’s an old wives’ tale, Bridie,’ said Kitty. ‘Come on. Last one at the river is a rotten egg!’

The three girls ran through the garden. When they reached the wall Celia complained that she’d dirty her dress on the stones. ‘Isn’t there a gate?’

‘Not if we want to go unnoticed,’ said Kitty.

Celia sighed and watched Kitty scale it like a lizard, followed closely by Bridie, whose dress was already dirty so it didn’t matter. Celia clenched her fists and stuck out her bottom lip.
‘I can’t,’ she exclaimed. ‘I’ll have to use the gate and risk being caught.’

‘No, you must climb it. It’s not difficult,’ Kitty insisted.

But Celia didn’t move. She folded her arms and went red in the face with indignation. ‘You can’t make me!’

At that moment there came the sound of footsteps on the leafy ground behind them. Kitty swung round, half expecting to find the three tinkers poaching again. She was relieved to see Jack’s
freckly face grinning at her from beneath his cap, his beagle trotting along beside him. ‘So, there you are!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’ve been looking for you.’

‘I thought you were a tinker,’ said Kitty.

‘No tinker would dare enter these woods after . . .’ He hesitated, his eyes flicking to Bridie who stood camouflaged against the wall in her brown dress like a scrawny partridge.
Bridie’s face lit up when she saw him, and she swept back her knotted hair with a grubby hand.

‘Celia won’t climb the wall,’ said Kitty.

‘Come on, Celia. I’ll give you a hand,’ said Jack. He jumped easily onto the wall and reached down. Celia reluctantly accepted his aid and let him pull her up. She smoothed
down her dress and checked for signs of dirt. Jack laughed. ‘What are you girls up to?’

‘We’re going to find a frog,’ said Bridie.

‘We want to give it to Victoria to see if it turns into a prince with a kiss,’ said Kitty with a giggle.

‘You’ll be kind to it now, won’t you?’ Jack asked, concerned.

‘We’ll put it back where we found it, I promise.’

‘Then I’ll show you where to find one. Follow me.’ At that moment Jack’s pet hawk swooped out of the sky and landed onto his thick, protective glove. ‘He’s
been hunting for rabbits and mice,’ said Jack. ‘So far, he hasn’t found anything.’

‘That’s because Papa is out with Cousin Digby and the boys and they’re killing everything that moves,’ said Kitty.

Jack led the way through the long grasses into the crevice of the hillside where the water trickled down to the sea. It was dark among the ferns and moss. Bridie stood behind Kitty as she
crouched down. She didn’t fancy getting too close if one hopped into view. Jack stood in the middle of the stream, hands on hips, gazing about him, more interested in his hawk than in the
search for frogs. Celia kept shouting from the bridge, ‘Have you found one yet?’

At last Kitty spotted a small olive-brown frog among the stones at the water’s edge. With a gasp of excitement, she gently picked it up and cupped it in her hands. ‘Jack!’ she
hissed. ‘I’ve found one!’ Jack peered between her fingers.

‘Have you got one?’ Celia was jumping up and down with excitement.

‘It’s a small one,’ said Jack. ‘Do you know it can change its colour to blend in with its surroundings?’

‘Will it go pink then, to match my skin?’ she asked.

‘No, it takes two hours to change. It might go a yellow colour if you give it time. You should carry it on a bed of leaves, not on your skin. You might harm it.’ He bent down and
started looking about for suitable foliage.

Bridie peered gingerly into Kitty’s hand. ‘Is it cold and slimy?’ she asked.

‘It feels soft and damp,’ Kitty replied happily. Jack helped her arrange the frog onto the leaves. ‘You have to help me up, Jack. I can’t use my hands.’

Jack laughed and swept Kitty into his arms. ‘You’re like a sack of potatoes, you are,’ he said, striding back up the bank. Bridie looked on enviously. She wished Jack would
carry
her
up the bank too. But she scrambled out by herself and watched Kitty showing the frog to Celia. As she observed the two cousins with their heads together, one red and one blonde,
but both so similar in attire and language, she felt a swell of pride that at least Jack was from
her
world and not theirs.
They
were united by a common culture, whereas Kitty and
Celia were so very different, being English and aristocratic. Jack might be fond of Kitty, but he would never be allowed to think of her as his equal
.

‘Bridie, will you find us something to put it in?’ Kitty asked when they got back to the castle, trying not to look guilty as one of the footmen walked past. She knew they were
expected for lunch and their sisters and mothers would probably be in the drawing room already with Adeline, and Celia’s grandmother Augusta.